Catch a clue
by squarey
Summary: Megan Wheeler, in the men’s locker room, with a box of Twinkies" Oh, and Mike Logan too. Some fun drabble, some angsty drabble, mostly Bobby drabble. Hopefully, some good to read drabble. A character, a place, and a thing. Like "Clue".
1. Bobby Goren, bar, scotch

**_Bobby Goren, in the bar, with a bottle of scotch._**

Bobby sat at the bar, running his two forefingers along the edge of the squat highball glass. He contemplated the amber liquid inside, the burn it created on his tongue, in his throat, the blur it brought to his brain. He liked the color, amber. He liked the color of scotch. He liked amber eyes, and amber hair. He liked the golden brown, he liked the burn.

He dipped his fingers into the liquid and placed them briefly in his mouth, closing his eyes. He pulled in a deep breath, and held it, until his brain felt uneven, until he felt uneven. With his eyes closed, he could see the amber. His brain, always busy, thought about the substance. Some people thought amber was fossilized tree sap. But, amber is fossilized resin. The resin that drips and oozes down trees, within them and outside of them. Resin is secreted as a protective mechanism, perhaps to protect from disease or injury, such as a broken branch, or perhaps to fight disease that is on the inside.

He continued to trace his fingers along the edge of the glass. Last call in the bar. He looked at the glass and the bottle of scotch, both still untouched. He thought about the amber liquid. He thought about amber hair and amber eyes. He thought about leaving the bar, leaving the scotch untouched. Resin, a healing mechanism : Amber, a healing mechanism. In the end, he took the shot, he left the bottle, and then he left the bar.

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**A/N**: What do you think about the scene?

Come and play with me. I need a 'suspect' (a LOCI character, or an LO character), a weapon (a thing), and a room (a place). You know, like "Clue". And then I'll write the scene that pops into my brain.


	2. Mike Logan, kitchen, knife

**_Mike Logan, in the kitchen, with a knife_**

"And, I don't know what the hell Ross was thinking. Falacci is impossible. It's like as soon as a thought hits her brain it is out of her mouth. She is loud, rude…" Mike was going on and on about his frustrations with his partner. Bobby was leaning against the kitchen counter doing his best to listen, but he was distracted by the way Mike was waggling a large, very sharp knife around as he was talking. Mike was using the knife for emphasis, like punctuation in the air. Bobby found the proximity of the knife a bit intimidating, and therefore was having a hard time absorbing what Mike was saying.

"So, what're you doing with that knife?" Bobby asked, completely off topic from Falacci.

"It tastes better when you make it." Mike replied, using the knife to point downward at a cutting board loaded with massacred tomatoes.

"What does?" Bobby glanced down at the tomatoes, but really, Bobby's attention was still on the knife. Mike was still waving it around, perhaps now more like a conductor's baton. Bobby found his eyes following along to the rhythm of the knife through the air as Mike continued to prattle on about Falacci.

"What?" Mike paused in his diatribe, realizing Bobby had asked a question.

"What tastes better when you make it?" Bobby asked, eyes still on the knife. Now, Mike was jabbing at ingredients on the counter, as if the knife was some kind of laser light pointer.

"Salsa." Mike looked at Bobby like Bobby was some kind of imbecile. Bobby glanced quickly away from the knife to see the slaughtered tomatoes, shredded cilantro, olive oil, a large blue container of kosher salt, some diced peppers… ...a sudden movement from Mike brought Bobby's attention back around, but Mike was simply polishing off his beer.

"You're making salsa." Bobby eyeballed Mike Logan incredulously.

"Yeah, I'm making salsa." Mike used the knife to point at himself, and then turned it quickly to point at Bobby. "And you're going to fucking love it. It tastes so much better when you make it." But again, Bobby lost track of what Mike was saying as he jumped backward away from the knife that Mike was jabbing through the air.

Bobby had come into the kitchen to get a beer. He did not come into the kitchen for a lecture on Falacci, and he definitely did not come into the kitchen to get flayed alive by a knife wielding Mike Logan. So Bobby stood, torn - should he ask Mike for the knife, or should he ask Mike for a beer?

Just as he was about to ask for the knife, Mike dropped it so that it clattered onto the kitchen counter. Then, with great aplomb Mike slid the pulverized tomatoes, the slivers of cilantro, the butchered peppers, a glop of olive oil, and a generous finger full of kosher salt into a bowl. Mike stirred the whole mess once and then pushed the bowl toward Bobby. For a moment, Bobby simply eyeballed the knife, wondering if it would fall from his precarious perch and stab one of them through the foot. Slowly, Bobby stepped away from the knife, procured a chip, and took a generous heap of the salsa.

Mike was right, it did taste way better when you made it from scratch.

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**A/N**: Thanks LenniGeorge! This popped immediately into my nugget when I read your suggestion. So, as you can see, I still cannot write a murder mystery. But if you give me the ingredients (character, room, thing), I will try my darndest to write a scene.


	3. Dr Dysart, Bronx zoo, machete

_**Dr Dysart, in the reptile house at the Bronx zoo, with a machete**_

Bobby's mom was talking to him. He was sitting on a bench in the middle of the Bronx zoo. At first he couldn't hear her, she wasn't facing him. She was looking through the glass that enclosed the snake exhibit in the middle of the reptile house.

"Mom?" Bobby asked, scratching his hands through his short curly hair. She turned to face him. She looked lovely in a deep red polka-dot dress. Her dark hair was glossy; pulled up and away from her face. Her brown eyes were clear.

"I know it's hard to stay on your meds. It's like your head is wrapped in a wet blanket. But if you go off them, well, that's when the trouble starts," she said to him, and he felt confused, he couldn't remember what they had been doing before he came to be sitting on the bench in the reptile house at the Bronx zoo. In fact, he couldn't remember coming to the zoo with his mother at all. He closed his eyes, trying to think, rubbing the heels of his hands against his head. He felt like his head was wrapped in a wet blanket.

"Mom?" He said the word again, but she was gone. He stood and walked over to the glass of the snake enclosure. He jumped back a step when he realized that the snake exhibit was not a snake exhibit at all. It was Dr. Thomas Dysart's ophthalmology office, he was examining Bobby's mother. Dysart was peering deeply into his mother's eyes with a bright penetrating light. Bobby could not hear what they were saying, but he could see that his mother's eyes were not the clear brown they were moments ago; something was out of focus, out of touch.

Bobby closed his eyes and drummed his forehead lightly against the glass. How did he get here? He tried to breathe and couldn't - his chest was tight, his heart felt slow. He was cold and sweaty. When he opened his eyes, Thomas Dysart held a machete in his hands and was walking around behind the exam chair where Bobby's mother still rested. Her eyes were closed now.

"This won't hurt a bit," Dysart mumbled, and this time Bobby could hear Dysart. Bobby thought that Dysart was going to lobotomize his mother with a machete. Irrationally, Bobby thought that wouldn't work; a machete was not the right instrument for that procedure. Bobby felt dizzy, disoriented. He closed his eyes and could vividly see hundreds of snakes, writhing against each other, coiled like diseased grey matter. He realized that he was in now in the ophthalmology chair. He was the sick one. Dysart wanted to examine him, to examine his eyes, and root around in his brain.

Bobby sat bolt upright, trying to get away. He gasped, bringing cold air into his lungs, clearing his mind. He was home in his bed. He was drenched in sweat and violently trembling. He pushed himself out of his bed and walked across the floor. He tried to bring his mind back to the present, the quiet of his apartment, the New York street noise. He changed his wet t-shirt and rubbed a hand over his face. He could not remember the last time he had gotten through the night without ripping himself awake out of some horrific nightmare.

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**A/N**: Thank you, thank you to Deliriousdancer for the prompt! This is what jumped into my mind when I read the suggestion. It is a little out of my "usual", so thanks to Mabsy for cleaning it up for me and letting me know that she could follow the scene. Poor Bobby. I cannot imagine his dreams... What do you think about the scene?

I love that you are reading and hope you are enjoying. And please, prompts are welcomed! They keep my brain busy in my endless meetings in my thrilling workplace...


	4. Ron Carver, Chruch, His words

_**Ron Carver, in a church, with his words**_

Ron Carver was all about words. He loved words. He loved all modes of media that made the most of words. He enjoyed prose, poetry, speeches, sermons, songs, you name it. He was captivated by words.

So, when Ron Carver entered the church he was surprised by his lack of words. He had nothing to say, he had nothing in his thoughts that would begin to bring justice to this moment. He was at an absolute and uncharacteristic loss.

He listened to the clack-clack of his hard soled shoes on the well worn wood floor of the aisle down the center of the church. The sanctuary was empty, except for one figure, whose large frame was crammed onto the rigid perpendicular lines of the tiny front pew.

Carver had known Bobby Goren for quite a few years. Professionally they worked well together. Time and time again, Bobby's keen intellect and tenacity resulted in the much needed evidence Carver required to prosecute and win cases. In fact, Carver credited Bobby for much of his success in the DAs office. Bobby made strong cases, so Carver's conviction rate was quite impressive. But Carver was not here in this church in a professional capacity. Bobby had suffered a great personal loss, and Carver had sought him out more as a friend than as a colleague.

Carver stopped his procession just a few feet short of Bobby Goren. He searched his brain, each and every cell, for the appropriate thing to say. Again, he found nothing. There was nothing he could say to this man that didn't seem like an empty cliché; nothing that would bring comfort, bring peace. In the end, Carver simply reached out, placing his hand firmly on Bobby's shoulder.

"May God help you find peace." Carver surprised even himself with his words. He hadn't planned them, he hadn't known they were there. He could feel Bobby shudder. He could feel Bobby's sharp, ragged intake of breath. Carver realized that it was a sob, choked in his chest, choked back into his heart. He didn't even know if Bobby believed in God. But there they were, in a church, and Carver realized that he hoped Bobby believed in God, that he hoped Bobby believed in something. That this man, this broken man, would need faith to get him through this moment, this time in his life. Carver knew that he had never spoken truer words; he sincerely prayed that Bobby would be able to find some peace.

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**A/N**: Thanks to InfinityStar for this cool prompt. I love the character of Ron Carver, and dearly miss him on the show. Again, Bobby just brings out the angst in my heart.

Next up is _**Danny Ross, in the men's room at 1PP, with Aveda humectant. **_So, that one will be fun.

Thank you to Mabsy for beta-ing me. I may be addicted to the beta/reality check/ "test reader" :)


	5. Ross, men's room, Aveda humectant

_**Danny Ross, in the men's locker room at 1PP, with Aveda humectant**_

Danny Ross stood in front of the sinks and mirrors in the men's locker room at 1PP. He was supposed to meet Rodgers after work, so he had taken a moment for a quick shower and a fresh change of clothes. His hair was still a bit damp from his shower; his curls were starting to spring back into their wild shape. He looked around for a moment, as if to make sure he was alone, and pulled the small jar of Aveda humectant pomade from his dopp kit. He slid his first two fingers into the thick concoction, warmed it up within his hands and started to work it through his hair, bringing his crazy curls into some semblance of order.

"Hey Captain." Mike Logan walked up to stand in front of the mirrors, leaving one sink as a kind of a barrier between himself and Ross.

"Logan." Ross bit out by way of hello, wondering where Logan had come from. He had thought he had a moment of privacy.

"What you got there?" Logan asked. Ross watched Logan set his own dopp kit into the sink and unzip it. "Yeah, I don't know if that's right for you." Logan leaned over into Ross's space, reading the label on the squat jar. "I think you need the _anti_-humectant."

"What?" Ross picked up his hair product, and looked at Logan, who was holding a tube of _Joe Grooming, Grooming Cream_ in his hand. Ross watched Logan place a small dollop into his palm and run it through his short hair.

"It thickens without being all heavy." Logan offered.

"The anti-humectant?" Ross was lost.

"No, not the anti-humectant, this stuff." Logan referred to the _Joe Grooming, Grooming Cream_. "What you have, that humectant stuff, makes your hair kind of shiny. The _anti_-humectant has more of a satin finish. And, I don't know about you, but I don't want shiny hair. That seems like a chick thing." Logan smiled at himself in the mirror, putting some final touches on his hair.

"Hey Ladies." Bobby Goren walked up shoving himself in front of the sink between Ross and Logan. Bobby turned on the faucet, and let some water slide across his palms. He ran his damp hands through his hair. "I like this here water, it thickens and manages all at the same time." Bobby smiled wickedly at his reflection.

Ross merely glared at them both. Packing up his stuff and shoving his dopp kit back into his locker, he stalked toward the door.

"Have a nice night Captain. Give Lizzie a big kiss for me." Logan called out. As the door hit Ross on his ass on his way out, he could hear a hoot of laughter. He wasn't sure if it was Logan or Goren, in fact he was pretty sure it was both of them.

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**A/N**: Thanks Mabsy! This was fun to write :)

I don't know why, but I suppose a man whose losing his hair (sorry Mike Logan/Chris Noth, you are hot, but you are thinning on top), might know a little something about hair products.


	6. A twofer for Alex

_**Alex Eames, in the squadroom, with the skittles**_

Alex Eames sat at her desk in the squad room, swiveling to and fro in her chair, arcing skittles up into the air and catching them in her mouth. There were a lot of different ways to eat skittles. Some people like to sort them, and eat them flavor by flavor. For example, she was fairly certain that Bobby was the type of guy to ferret out all of the red strawberry flavored ones. Alex, on the other hand, liked to mix it up. She liked the surprise associated with choosing something randomly, not really even looking at it, popping it into her mouth and enjoying the waxy, chewy, fruity goodness. Of course, she could only do the random selection with the original flavored skittles. Or maybe even with the wild berry ones. But she simply hated the smoothie flavors. She often thought - what was the use? There was no tart bite in the smoothie flavors.

Alex leaned back in her chair, executed a perfect throw of a red one high up into the air. She closed her eyes and opened her mouth and waited for the skittle to hit her tongue. She waited and waited and waited. She even waited for the plickity plick sound of a missed skittle hitting the hard surface of her desk or maybe the floor. But, she heard nothing. Finally she opened her eyes, surprised to see Bobby standing next to her. He taunted her by revealing that he held the strawberry red skittle expertly between his forefinger and thumb. While her eyes had been closed, he had reached out and snatched the red skittle mid flight out of the air.

"The red ones are the best ones." He smiled, popping the delightful strawberry skittle into his mouth. His statement confirmed what she had suspected earlier, Bobby really was the type of guy to root out all of the red ones and let all of the other scrumptious flavors simply languish in the bag.

_**

* * *

**__**Alex Eames, in the observatory, with the trebuchet**_

Alex Eames clomped up the primitively constructed wooden steps onto the observatory platform. She wore her binoculars around her neck, and kept her hands in her pockets. She was in the middle of no-wheres-ville New York. The fall afternoon was freezing. She looked out across the large field and shivered. She couldn't help herself; the whole thing was surprisingly exciting.

She looked to her left where a row of four newly constructed trebuchets stood proudly in the afternoon sun. Some looked a bit sturdier than others; each was surrounded by a team of people comprised of NYPD personnel. Alex hoped that no major crime sprees were happening in the city, because it looked like half of the force was either participating in the contest or there to bear witness.

Alex was part of one of the teams. She was the spotter. That is, she was the one that was supposed to visually follow the pumpkin as it hurtled through the air, down the field and into the grass. She was responsible for identifying the location so the distance could be appropriately measured and recorded. That's right, Alex Eames was part of an NYPD team that had constructed a catapult (a trebuchet) meant to hurtle large pumpkins great distances.

"READY!" Bobby's voice called out loud a clear across the field. Alex waved to indicate she was in position. Bobby was the team leader, it was his vision and engineering that had guided the construction of their team's trebuchet. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen him so happily engaged in something. Bobby called "READY! AIM! FIRE!"

Alex watched the trebuchet work perfectly. With her binoculars she followed the path of the pumpkin high up into the clear blue sky, hurtling with a steady and powerful force in a perfect arc through the cold fall air. It landed with a plump in the deep grass. Alex visually marked the spot.

"YEAH!" Bobby yelled, jumping up off the ground, punching his fist up into the air. They didn't need to wait for the results of the measurement to know that theirs was the furthest toss of round 1.

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**A/N**: Thanks to Kyasurin-Chan for _Alex, in the squadroom, with the skittles_. And, thanks to Persimmon for _Alex, in the observatory, with the trebuchet_. I hope you enjoyed these two fun ones :).

How do you like to eat skittles? I am with Bobby, I will eat the red ones, and leave the rest for someone else :).


	7. Alex, dining room, candlestick

_**Alex Eames, in the dining room, with a candlestick**_

First anniversaries were often the most difficult. Alex remembered all of the advice she had received a year ago - that if she was going to make it, if her life was going to find a new balance, a new pattern, she would feel it after the first year. She tried her best to be honest with herself, and she knew that even after a year she still felt a bit uncertain. Most of the time her legs were still a bit wobbly at the mere thought of Joe. She was positive she would love him her entire life, but she knew with great pain that sometimes it was not simply about love.

She had set the table in the dining room. She used the china they had received as wedding presents. She ran her finger along the edge of a dinner plate, admiring the wide platinum band against the bone white plate. She had fallen in love with the pattern the first time she had laid eyes on it, and with the passage of time she loved it all the more. Gently she placed a large crystal candlestick in the center of the oval table, and wedged a fresh white candle into place. She slid the candlestick to rest against a bowl of fresh flowers she had arranged earlier in the day.

She returned to the kitchen to place the finishing touches on the dinner she was preparing. Pasta Carbonara was one of Joe's favorite meals. She had even taken the time to purchase and shell fresh peas. The pasta was just about done cooking; she had already grated a mound of fresh Parmigiano-Reggiano. She was just about ready to assemble the dish, so she returned to the dining room to light the candlestick. She stood for a moment, admiring the small dining room, the polished wooden surface of the table, the deep lichen color on the walls. She cherished the warmth of this room, the love she had put into this room. When they had moved in, she remembered thinking that she would share so many special occasions in this room with her new husband.

Even though he wasn't there, she had thought to celebrate their life, to celebrate his life. She realized she couldn't, not without him. She had no appetite; she hadn't felt like eating anything in a very long time. So, she sat down alone, in front of the single place she had set. First anniversaries were definitely the most difficult. She still felt like someone had ripped her heart out of her chest. Softly, she placed her head in her hands and allowed herself to cry. A year had passed since Joe had died.

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**A/N**: So, I'm posting this without the lovely work of beta-mabsy. So, all faults above are my own. Thank you to FeistyGeist for the inspiration. My writing muse must be sad today.


	8. A twofer with Rodgers and then Lewis

_**Elizabeth Rodgers, in the Starlight Room, with a pair of tweezers**_

Danny Ross stood in the morgue with Elizabeth Rodgers. He was pouring two generous glasses of champagne. They had plans for the evening to go out for dinner, maybe some dancing, but a last minute call to the MEs office had Elizabeth staying at work.

"This isn't exactly the Starlight Room, but the champagne is cold." Danny smiled and handed Elizabeth a fragile flute of bubbly champagne. She took a small sip, and leaned back against the empty, cold steel exam table.

"It's lovely." She smiled, thinking sometimes you just had to make the best of what life threw at you.

"So, what's the case?" Danny couldn't keep from talking work. After all, he was standing in the morgue with the ME.

"It's your case." She replied. A bit of surprise showed in her eyes that she had postponed their date so she could do a preliminary exam on a dead body for something pressing happening within Major Case Squad.

"My case?" Danny, drank deeply of the champagne, he could feel his temper rising. He didn't know of any emergency, clearly he was out of the loop on something, and one name came to mind.

"Yeah, Detectives Eames and Goren caught something. They sent word they needed some blood results ASAP." Elizabeth replied.

"Goren." Danny snapped out Bobby's name like it was an expletive. His grip on his glass strengthened with such force that the fragile champagne flute shattered in his hand.

"Oh shit." Elizabeth mumbled, setting her champagne aside, grabbing a hold of Danny's hand. There were tiny shards of glass embedded in his palm, and blood was starting to spring out of the miniscule little cuts. "Hold still." She ordered. "I'm going to need to get some tweezers."

"Some date." Danny mumbled, still angry, wondering how Goren always seemed to get in the middle of his plans with Elizabeth Rodgers.

"Yeah," She turned, with her tweezers in hand. "Some date." She smiled, revealing that she didn't mind.

* * *

_**Lewis, in the NY City Library, with the G volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica**_

Bobby Goren was pissed; however, not in the angry kind of way. He was juiced, hammered, slammed, tanked, totaled, wrecked - you know, drunk. It was his birthday, and he was out with Lewis. He had thought ahead enough to put in for leave with the head of Narcotics, so he wouldn't have to tone down the nonsense Lewis had planned.

At the end of a very blurry evening he found himself sitting in the New York City library going through the _G_ volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. The entire day had been all about the letter _G_. Lewis had opened the day by setting up a game of Gin Rummy, that actually had involved more beer and talking than card playing, but was brilliant fun all the same. Then they had moved onto a bar, to order every _G_ drink they could think of. Bobby had started with a Gibson, moved onto a Gimlet, forced down a Gin Rickey, took a Gorilla shot, then he had a vague recollection of doubling up on the Gummy Bear, which was so sweet he almost brought everything back up. Instead he took a deep breath and fell sideways off his seat onto the floor.

Lewis hauled him up onto his feet and had insisted there was one more stop. He wanted to test Bobby's knowledge of all things _G_, so they made their way rather haphazardly to the New York City library. Lewis was trying his best to focus his double-vision on the blurry lines of text in the Encyclopedia Britannica, but he was not having much success, which was just as well because Bobby had passed out cold across the reading table.

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**A/N**: Thank you, thank you to DeliriousDancer for these great prompts. Thanks for the inspiration. I love to flex my writing muscles with these snippets :)


	9. Wheeler, locker room, Twinkies

_**Megan Wheeler, in the men's locker room, with a box of Twinkies**_

Megan Wheeler stood in the men's locker room, box of Twinkies in hand. She was scanning the row, looking for Mike's locker. Last night, they had been playing darts at Mike's favorite watering hole. Megan won five games in a row and Mike had stopped playing. He had mumbled something his allergies bothering him, that his eyes were all watery and he couldn't see right. Megan knew the reason he couldn't see right was all of the beer he had been drinking.

Megan taped the note on the box of Twinkies and opened Mike's locker. She couldn't believe that his combination was his birthday in reverse. She placed a new package of darts on top, and quietly closed the locker door. Undetected, she crept back out of the locker room.

When Mike arrived at work later than morning, the box of Twinkies, the note, and the package of darts tumbled out of his locker into his arms. He read Megan Wheeler's perfect cursive –

_Not an adequate defense._

_More practice, fewer beers._

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**A/N**: How many of you need to google "Twinkie Defense"? I'm thinking Mike Logan might have to look up that one… Thanks to LenniGeorge for this one!


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